Eternal Peace of Mind
by freddiexsinful
Summary: "O Catherine, my love. Light of my life, blight of my soul. My greatest love and greatest torment."


The booming thunder and rolling gusts of bitter wind shook the entire home straight from it's rocky foundation, rattling the windows and violently bending the trees outside them. It was a night not uncommon to the treacherous moors Wuthering Heights made home to, and because of this, the aged Heathcliff, who lie in his bed, graying hair hanging in his face, was completely unaffected by it.

He slept, but not peacefully, as his mind would not allow him to. In all his life he'd never been able to; without the aches and pains that came with age, his mind was afflicted by inner turmoil. And it had always been, even as a boy, though what exactly plagued his mind changed through the years.

Now, it was Catherine who haunted his every thought; even in sleep he could not escape the agonizing reminders of her stolen existence. How cruel it is, O Catherine, that you torment me so, he thought. Your smile bedevils me when I awake to find you still lie beneath the earth, and not in my arms. O Catherine, my love. Light of my life, blight of my soul. My greatest love and greatest torment.

He tossed and turned as he slept, strewing the blankets around as he struggled against the battle in his head. He went about this for some time, as if unable to escape Catherine's ethereal grasp on his mind, but was awoken with a sharp gasp. He was unsure whether it had been the light spray of rain water on his cheek which had pulled him from his tumultuous slumber, or the lamp which had fallen and cracked against the floor, but what he was sure of was the distant, but very distinct sound of a familiar voice from outside the open window.

_"Heathcliff…"_

"Catherine?" he asked, trembling. In his exhaustion, he was unconcerned with the stormy spray that hit his shallow cheeks, or the wind that blew his grizzled hair about. "Is that you, my love? Please, tell me it's you. Don't entice me with your words only to leave me. Oh, Cathy…"

For a long moment, there's nothing but the creaking branches and the roaring wind that responds to him. But just as the last of the aged man's hope begins to dwindle, like the flickering flame of a candle, the door to his chambers opened and, illuminated by a brief flash of lightning, the maid Zillah stood in the doorway.

"Oh, sire," she said. "Are you alright? Your window's wide open. You'll catch terrible cold if you go on like this."

Heathcliff, distraught that his own mind had bewitched him, sat back down on the end of his bed while Zillah went to close the window.

"Oh, would you look at that," she said. "The floor's all wet with rain. I'll fetch a towel." And as soon as she'd come, she'd left just the same. It was as if she'd never come at all to Heathcliff, who stared onward in his confusion.

His Catherine was a cruel mistress, he thought. Giving him hope where there was none due. So slowly, with some effort as his bones ached and crackled in their age, he laid back once again, with the knowledge that at least he could dream of his Catherine, whether or not the idea gave him peace.

And then, just as he thought he would succumb to sleep, he heard once more:

_"Heathcliff…"_

"Catherine!" he shouted, leaping up with a start. Immediately, then, he rushed toward the window and pressed his feeble hands against it. "Cathy, my love! I'm here! Your Heathcliff is here!"

Frantically, he began searching the gardens for her with his eyes, exasperated and confused, until one final shriek, loud and clear as if the source came from directly beside him, halted his efforts.

_"Heathcliff…!"_

"Catherine!" he bellowed, turning on a heel just as Zillah reappeared in the doorway, holding a lit lantern in one hand and a towel in the other. Heavy-footed, he stormed past her and grabbed the lamp on his exit, bustling down the stairs before the maid could call after him:

"Sire! Sire, where are you going so late?"

Ignoring every word, Heathcliff, didn't even bother slipping into his coat and boots as he bounded out the front door. "Cathy!" he shouted, treading barefoot across the slippery cobblestone pavement with the lantern held up to guide him. "Cathy, my love! Where are you?"

_"Heathcliff!"_

He followed every ghastly cry into the wicked storm that thrashed all about him, stumbling and staggering through the moorland in his night robe. The wind whipped his hair violently, and the harsh raindrops stung his face like little beads of ice. But he was determined, despite the circumstances, to locate his lost love among the grass-covered, rocky terrain.

As the various boulders dotting the land became more prominent, he carefully trod over them, but the mud clinging to his feet against the smooth surface of the rocks caused him to slip, and he tumbled downward, spiraling again and again until he landed with a thud and his head cracked sharply against the ground.

Stunned and disoriented, he let out a groan of pain, struggling to make sense of which way was up and which was down. His pyjamas were clinging to his skin coldly, and his lantern had shattered in the fall, but the icy grip of a small, wet hand forced him to open his eyes, and there, at last, he saw her.

Catherine.

It wasn't a ghost or apparition, but Catherine herself, kneeling there ahead of him, with her hand against his cheek. Despite the storm that raged on around them, she seemed completely and wholly unaffected, with her soft eyes and ruddy cheeks aglow in the moonlight. Weakly, desperately, Heathcliff raised a hand to touch her cheek, as if to ensure himself that yes, his Cathy was real, and she was there, right then.

"Don't leave me," he pleaded frantically, whispering it again and again. "O, my love, don't leave me, Cathy. Don't leave me…"

_"I could as soon leave myself,"_ she told him. He laughed, deliriously, recalling something similar he'd told her long ago.

"Stay," he said.

_"I will,"_ she responded.

She pressed her forehead to his, and a tear escaped his eyes as he closed them, feeling a sudden warmth begin to fill his body. Is this death? he asked himself. Have I finally come home to join my Cathy?

He knew it was, and the thought comforted him. But as soon as he felt his body relax, succumbing to the inevitability that was sweet bereavement, he heard a shout, and the warmth shot out of him in a sudden, jarring burst.

"He's here!"

It was Hareton, his nephew who had grown out of his lean boyishness and into manhood. He stood a few paces away, his dark brows illuminated by the light of the lantern he held ahead of him. Joseph and Zillah weren't far behind, carrying lanterns with their coats whipping about them.

Heathcliff was dazed, grasping the empty air ahead of him, as the realization sank into the pit of his gut that his Catherine was no longer ahead of him, and he was thrust cruelly back into cold, brutal reality.

"Cathy…" he muttered, his eyes darting around frantically. His hair was plastered to his head, and tendrils of blood had rolled down his face, certainly the product of sharp, stained rock nearby. "Cathy… My love, where… where have you gone? Cathy?"

"Babblin' to 'imself, th' pitiful sod," said geriatric Joseph, bending down with a sharp crack of his knees to take a hold of the delusional Heathcliff, and along with young Hareton's help, the two began carrying him back to the manor, as he slipped into unconsciousness.

When he awoke the next day, heavy bags under his sunken eyes and cheeks sallow, he prayed for the death he knew Cathy had given him.


End file.
